“The first thing is the last” or so the saying goes. A tradition for the non-conformist. The George Cox process its not for the gentle artisan. It’s a gruelling, sweaty affair that has just as much attitude as the creeper’s clientele.

The factory floor is an intimidating landscape, the machines rise out of the ground like stalagmites, ancient and intricate. A dormant hum permeates the air, each one breathing harshly waiting to be activated. The switch is flicked and the statues spring to life, biting and punching. Making light work of great thick panels of leather, the machine performs a burly yet precise set of instructions in the hands of its operator.

There’s something incredibly theatrical about the sparring between the maker and the machine, each shoe a new wrestle for control, like a hundred title fights every day. It's unmistakable when you look at the shoes on the other end, you can feel in every brutal detail the bravado of each stage of its making. Step by step, the champion emerges, passing over the spoils to the next contender on the floor.